on passage
by hoidn
Summary: It has never occurred to her that he wouldn't come. (What if Sully wasn't there to meet the stagecoach at the end of 'Where the Heart Is?)


Ornithology (of a migrating bird) the action of passing through a place en route to its final destination: _the species occurs regularly __**on passage**_

* * *

lucky we don't have to know  
what something is in order to hold it.

-Mark Doty

-o-

The long days and nights of the journey feel endless. Michaela keeps finding herself holding her breath. An urgency builds inside her with each passing hour, coiling like a spring, filling up her lungs. She needs to see him. She needs to tell him. At night, in the dark, she focuses on keeping a steady rhythm of inhale, exhale, matching it to the rhythm of the train.

She finds it hard to sleep.

It's easier during daylight. She can watch the train eating up towns and miles, occupy herself with the children and the practicalities of enduring travel. They talk of going home: who they'll see, what they'll do. Ingrid is at the top of Matthew's list, Pup at the top of Brian's. By some unspoken agreement no one mentions Sully and Michaela is obscurely grateful. He already fills up too much of her head, her heart. Try as she might, she can't stop thinking of him. When she closes her eyes, he's there. A thousand still instants she hadn't known she remembers.

At odd moments the knowledge strikes her: Sully loves her. It seems to surge through her body, making her heart pound and her limbs weak. She feels exposed, sure everyone must see the maelstrom within her. It's as though she has opened a Pandora's box and part of her wishes she could simply push it all back in.

When they change to the stagecoach, it becomes easier to manage herself. This part of the journey demands more of her energy and focus. There is less room and less to entertain them. After the train, the speed of horses feels like sitting still. Brian is bored, his excitement at going home transmuting into restlessness. They play word games and make plans for holidays months in the future.

At the final rest stop before Colorado Springs, Michaela changes from her travelling clothes. White is completely impractical for the stagecoach and yet she needs the courage that wearing a beautiful dress will bring her. And she wants to look pretty when she sees him, when she tells him. She wonders if he will kiss her. She wants him to, has wanted it since the first kiss ended. It had been so unexpected, so brief, but for days afterward she swore she could still feel his lips against hers like a haunting. Sometimes she's afraid she imagined it.

The closer they get to town, the drier and dustier the landscape becomes. She doesn't remember it ever being so drab before.

"Looks like there ain't been much rain since we left," says Matthew.

"No," she agrees, thinking of her little garden with concern.

Brian leans out the window, craning his neck for the first sight of town. "Ma, I can see the top of the church!" he cries triumphantly. "We're almost home!"

Michaela's smile is equal parts fear and relief. Now that the moment is almost upon her, she suddenly wishes she could put it off for just a little longer. She recalls the hurt and anger on Sully's face that last day in Boston. What if he's not happy to see her? What if he's changed his mind?

But then it's too late, they've arrived. The stage stops in front of the general store and a small crowd gathers. Loren helps her down, Matthew rushes off, Brian is talking excitedly, and there are the bags to collect.

After a moment she feels Colleen's hand on her back. "Where's Sully?"

Michaela turns to look, scanning the street, expecting to find him in some out-of-the-way spot watching her, as always.

It has never occurred to her that he wouldn't come.

After so many days in almost constant motion, her body is unused to standing still. She tells herself that's why she feels a little dizzy, a little sick. The sun is too bright, too hot. Disappointment presses on her like a weight.

She wishes now that she'd worn one of her usual soft skirts and blouses, something less conspicuous, more appropriate to Colorado. The dress had been a foolish idea. Wrong. Everything feels wrong.

Rather than answering Colleen, she turns to find Matthew wrapped up with Ingrid. She has an intense need to be at home. To be away from all these people. "Matthew, will you please fetch the wagon from Robert E's?"

Matthew doesn't even turn her way, only calls back, "In a minute."

Unaccountably angry, she says, "Matthew, now please." Her voice is sharp, brittle. He turns to look at her and there must be something on her face giving her away because all at once he steps from Ingrid's embrace and nods.

Stricken, Michaela turns back to where Colleen stands with the bags. She can't bear the thought that anyone knows how hurt she is, how ridiculous she feels. Brian is still chattering away to Loren, who has given him a twist of candy as a welcome home gift. Colleen merely watches her solemnly.

"Why don't we take the bags over to the clinic and wait for Matthew there?" Michaela does her best to sound cheerful.

By the time they cross to the clinic with the bags, her boots and the hem of her skirt are coated in dust. Colleen and Brian's clothes have fared no better. She leans her head against one of the posts and looks out at the town she calls home. The familiar buildings and faces seem flatter, duller than she remembers. The light is harsher, its glare more piercing. Even the meadow seems smaller and less green.

Then Dorothy is there, with a cry of delight, enfolding her in a hug. "Oh Michaela, it's so good to have you home! And ain't you lookin' stylish?"

Michaela returns the hug, manufacturing a smile for her friend. "I'm afraid it's not a very practical choice for travelling."

"How was the trip?"

"Long," says Brian emphatically.

Dorothy laughs. "And your Ma's all right now?"

"Yes, she's completely recovered. And how are you? How is everyone?"

"Oh, fine, fine. There's nothin' wrong that a little rain wouldn't fix. Folks are gettin' more riled up than usual over the littlest things."

Michaela frowns. "There's been no rain at all since we left?"

"Not a drop."

"But it hasn't rained in months."

"We've just got to keep prayin', I guess." Dorothy's expression turns mischievous. "But enough about all that, I want to hear about Boston."

For a heartbeat Michaela wants to tell Dorothy it all, to unburden herself of everything that's happened, everything she feels. But almost as soon as the impulse appears it's gone. On its heels Matthew arrives in the wagon.

"Hi Miss Dorothy."

"Welcome home, Matthew. It's sure good to have you all back."

Matthew smiles as he jumps down to load the bags. "It's real good to be back."

Michaela takes Dorothy's arm. "Would you mind if we talk about Boston another day? It's been a long journey and I'd like to get home."

"Of course! I'm bein' thoughtless. You must be exhausted. You go on home and I'll see you tomorrow."

Dorothy hugs her again and stands to wave as Matthew clucks at the horses to start for home.

-o-

The drive to the homestead is largely silent. Even Brian has run out of things to say. Michaela is stunned at the change in the land. Everywhere she looks the grass is brown and dead. Leaves hang limply on the trees. Areas that were full of life only five weeks ago now appear desolate in the hard, orange light.

"Everything is so different," she murmurs, hardly aware that she's spoken aloud.

"Yeah," Matthew agrees. He clears his throat. "Robert E said Sully asked him to look after the place before he left for Boston. He and Grace went by yesterday to tidy it up a bit."

"That was kind of them. I'll have to remember to thank them."

He looks at her with a frown. "You all right, Dr Mike?"

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you Matthew. I'm just tired." She knows her tone is false, her words stilted, but she's holding herself together so tightly. If she lets go even a little she might start to cry.

Everything is very still as they turn in to the homestead. The buildings remind her of dried husks, brown on brown. It's a shock to be here in this familiar, unfamiliar place. Despair, something she has not felt since David's death, creeps insidiously into her chest.

The children clamber out of the wagon and Matthew helps her down. Her dress appears even more impractical and out of place here.

She hears a bark and then Brian's joyful shout and turns to see the exuberant reunion between boy and dog. They roll in the dirt of the yard and Michaela laughs. The brief moment of happiness is such a gift that she doesn't even scold him for getting his good clothes dirty.

Leaving the bags in the wagon, she wanders over to examine the damage to her garden. Dried twigs are all that remain of the vegetables and herbs she has so carefully tended.

Matthew walks up to stand next to her. "Ingrid said there's been no rain since we've been gone. Food's gettin' hard to come by."

"I suppose we'll have to be careful with water for a while. We may need to bring it up from the creek."

"Kind of a change from Boston, huh? I can kinda understand now how hard it must've been for you comin' here like you did."

"It certainly took some adjustment," she says with a brief smile.

"It was real brave."

The sincerity in his voice and expression makes her want to cry. The only other person who has ever told her she is brave is Sully. "Thank you, Matthew," she manages.

He nods, then gestures towards the house. "I guess we best unpack."

-o-

Unpacking is a much calmer, slower affair than the frantic activity of five weeks before. Colleen is upset over the deaths of some of her hens and Brian, having expended all his energy, is too tired to do much more than sit by the fireplace and play with Pup.

After half an hour, Matthew excuses himself to go back into town to see Ingrid. Despite all that's still left to be done, Michaela doesn't have the heart to protest.

She busies herself with simple tasks: the movement of items from suitcases to drawers, changing her clothes. Brian falls asleep in a ball on the floor and she puts him to bed. There's plenty of firewood, it's too late to start any washing, and Grace has sent them home with a picnic basket for supper, so there isn't even the comfort of chores to take her mind off of Sully's absence.

She tries to occupy herself with sewing, but her fingers fumble the stitches and the thread twists into knots. Reading is no better. She pretends that she isn't listening for the sound of footsteps on the porch and a knock at the door, that her heartbeat doesn't speed up at every stray sound.

When Brian wakes they eat a cold supper. The meal and its cleanup are a welcome distraction, as is Brian's request for her to read to them.

Outside the sky darkens and the stars come out.

When the children say their goodnights, Colleen leans in and hugs her. "He'll be here tomorrow," she whispers. "You'll see."

-o-

Everything is quiet, still. Michaela stands at the window and looks out unseeingly at the sky. There is a dull ache in her chest. She wonders where Sully is sleeping tonight. If he's thinking of her. She has been in love with him so long that lying to herself about it has become second nature. But she never wanted to lie to him and she's afraid that in Boston she did just that. Lying by omission. Perhaps that's something he simply can't forgive.

From the very beginning, Sully has fascinated and unnerved her. At first she hadn't known what to make of him - his audacity, the generosity of offering her the homestead contrasted with his brusqueness, even rudeness when they first met. He was so unlike the men she had known all her life, unlike even the other men in town. But then there was his kindness and caring; the trust he placed in her and her abilities as a doctor; his obvious admiration for her skill. And his unexpected tenderness. He has confounded her every time she thinks she understands him.

Her own feelings confound her, too. Her reactions to him unsettle her, confuse her. She has found men attractive before, but nothing like this. There are times when her body seems to betray her, when she's sure Sully must know how he makes her feel. His hands at her waist or on her shoulder, when he leans in to speak quietly, the way he looks at her sometimes. She feels tense, distracted, embarrassed, horribly foolish. And yet when he's away for too long she misses him bodily. She is alive to his presence in a way she has never been with anyone else. Sometimes it's almost painful to have him near her and yet somehow it's worse when he's not.

He is entirely comfortable with himself. She envies him that assurance, that self-sufficiency. All her life she has felt like a piece of a puzzle that doesn't belong. Until the children. Until him. Somehow their mismatched edges seemed to fit.

She presses her hand against her sternum, over her heart. It is a phantom pain she feels, without a physiological cause. The heart is made of muscle and connective tissues. It is not, as the poets claim, the place where love resides. She's a doctor; she knows better. She's seen the fragility of the human heart, held it in her hand, cut it open. A heart is merely a hollow organ where there is only motion, only passing through. Even if love were made manifest, even if it could find its way into the heart, it could never stay.

Turning from the window, she checks on the fire. Tomorrow, she resolves, if he does not come to her, she will find him. One way or another, she will know.

In the morning, after breakfast, she starts on the washing. It is still unseasonably warm and the cold water is pleasant against her skin. The physical exertion helps to clear her head and she regains her sense of purpose.

But still, her pulse is too fast and her stomach is filled with stones. By lunchtime he hasn't come and she cannot wait any longer.

"I'm going to the reservation," she tells Colleen. "Will you be all right on your own?" Matthew and Brian have gone to the creek to swim.

"I'll be fine," Colleen says. "I've still got two books from Boston to read. It'll be nice to read 'em in peace with no one botherin' me."

Michaela can't help but smile. "I know what you mean."

She saddles Flash quickly, feeling again an urgency to do, to go. They head for the familiar path to the reservation at a gallop. The speed and the wind in her face help to calm the feelings coursing through her. Fleetingly, she wishes she could just ride, just keep riding, forever.

But she can't. Nor does she truly want to. It's not escape she wants, but a destination. Somewhere, someone, to run to. Of her own accord, Flash begins to slow to a canter, then a trot, as if sensing Michaela's shifting thoughts.

They arrive at the camp at a sedate pace to find Snow Bird walking towards them.

Michaela tethers Flash and clasps her friend's hand warmly. "It's so good to see you again."

Snow Bird smiles. "I am glad to see you as well." She calls to one of the children to bring water for Flash. "Sully tells us your mother is well now."

"Yes, she's made a complete recovery."

"That is good news."

"And is everyone here well?"

"We are well. There has been no sickness since your last visit."

"I'm very glad to hear it." Michaela gestures to her medical bag. "At least I won't be needing this."

They fall into step together, walking a shady path at the edge of the camp. Women are working, talking and laughing, while their children play. Snatches of conversation catch Michaela's ears and here and there she recognises a word or a phrase.

"Have you been badly affected by the lack of rain?"

Snow Bird shakes her head and looks up at the clear sky. "There is water enough. We have seen this weather before."

"I'm afraid the townspeople haven't. The shortage is going to become serious before long."

"You can always find what you need if you know where to look."

Michaela turns her head and catches Snow Bird watching her with amusement.

"Dr Mike, you did not come here only to ask about our health and the weather."

"No, of course not. I wanted to see you and Cloud Dancing again. I've been away so long and I missed talking with you both."

"Is it yourself you are trying to convince or me?"

"I'm not - I _did_ want to -"

Snow Bird is openly laughing now and Michaela breaks off, feeling the heat in her cheeks. "Am I that obvious?"

"You cannot hide your heart, my friend."

"Only from myself," says Michaela, ruefully.

"It is always that way. You want to know if Sully is here."

"Is he?"

"He is with my husband. They say they are hunting. If that is true, they have become very poor hunters."

Michaela laughs and Snow Bird grins, then her expression becomes more serious.

"Since his return Sully has been like a shadow. My husband has been worried for him."

"But not you?"

"I knew you would return."

Something about the assurance in Snow Bird's voice eases the constriction in Michaela's chest a little. Keeping her feelings so closely to herself, being unable to express her happiness and her fear to anyone, has made the last weeks a trial. She simply hasn't felt able to confide in anyone, not even Dorothy. But here, in the face of Snow Bird's warm acceptance, someone who is both her friend and Sully's, it seems natural, even easy.

"He - he told me that he loved me, in Boston."

"Ah," says Snow Bird. "And you did not tell him the same."

"No. It just happened so fast. We were on a train of all places and it was about to leave and the children were still at my mother's and..." Snow Bird is watching her with a mild expression. Michaela sighs. "And I was terrified," she confesses.

"When much goes unsaid there can be too much to say at one time."

"I was so confused at first. And then so happy. We came home as soon as we could and I thought - but thinking about it now, the way he said it, it was almost as if he was angry." She looks off through the trees. "Perhaps he wishes he didn't."

"Perhaps it was not anger but his own fear. I have seen the way he looks at you, as if the hunger is in his eyes and not his belly. And I have seen the way he looks when he talks of you." Snow Bird shakes her head. "That has not changed."

Michaela meets her friend's eyes and smiles. "I hope you're right."

They are still moving at a slow, measured pace, although Michaela has no memory of where they've walked. The camp is now out of sight but she can still hear the sound of children's voices. The air is heavy and warm even in the shadows of the trees. She's missed these woods, this sky, missed a silence filled with the sounds of animals and the movements of leaves. Muscles she hadn't known were tensed begin to relax.

"Snow Bird, what was he like? Sully? When you first knew him?"

Snow Bird considers. "He was more than a shadow then. Very close to the spirits."

"After his wife died?"

"Yes. Three winters ago my husband had a dream of an animal caught, in terrible pain. In the morning he walked the path of his dream to find the animal. Instead he found a man almost frozen in the snow guarded by a young wolf. When Cloud Dancing brought the man here, the wolf followed."

"He must have been very ill."

Snow Bird nods. "He did not want to live. But my husband is stubborn and would not give up. Cloud Dancing spent many hours praying to the spirits for his life. Later, after his body had healed, Sully asked to stay with us."

"You became his family."

"At first there were many who did not want a white man living among us. Black Kettle said that if he stayed he must learn to live as we do." Snow Bird grins suddenly. "When he first began to learn the ways of the Cheyenne, do you know what the children called him?"

Michaela shakes her head.

"Running bear."

"Running bear?"

"When the men were hunting his movements were so loud and clumsy they said he sounded like an angry bear."

Michaela covers her mouth with her hands, laughing at the image. "I can't imagine that."

Their walk has nearly brought them full circle to where they began. Michaela feels lighter than she has in days, calmer. She stops and waits for Snow Bird to turn back to her. "Thank you."

Snow Bird raises her eyebrows enquiringly.

"For listening. For understanding."

Looking back toward the tipis and the camp, a small smile hovers at the edges of Snow Bird's mouth. "Sully is no longer the bear that the children named him. He is more like the wolf. Wolves are very intelligent, very loyal to their pack. The wolf stays with him because they are equals. It does not obey a command but will accept a request out of friendship, or love." Snow Bird meets Michaela's eyes and continues, "Mated wolves stay together for life. If one of them dies, the survivor will seek another mate."

Under Snow Bird's knowing gaze, Michaela feels her face flush again. "Aren't there wolves who live by themselves, though?"

"Sometimes it is necessary. Many are young and searching for a pack. They do not want to be alone."

Before Michaela can think of a response, Snow Bird's eyes focus beyond her shoulder.

"Finally they come. Half a day's hunting but their hands are empty." She shakes her head, a wry twist to her lips. "And they complain that women talk so much."

With a tiny lurch of her heart, Michaela turns to watch them walk closer. Watch _him_. How had she forgotten the exact, deliberate grace of his movements, the way he seems to fill the space around him, the way her breath catches just for a moment whenever she meets his eyes?

She forces herself to smile and greet them.

Sully only nods, his expression unreadable, but Cloud Dancing returns her smile and holds out his hand to her. "It is good to see you again, Dr Mike."

"It's good to see you too, Cloud Dancing." She glances behind her. "Snow Bird and I have been catching up."

"While we waited for the fearsome hunters," says Snow Bird dryly.

Cloud Dancing looks at his wife in amusement. "A hunter cannot always return with a kill from every hunt."

Snow Bird rolls her eyes and begins walking back towards the camp. With a rueful shake of his head, Cloud Dancing follows her.

Michaela turns back to Sully, her smile faltering. "How are you?"

"Fine."

She doesn't know what to make of his carefully neutral voice. "May I speak with you?"

He shrugs. "Sure."

She moves off the path through dense clusters of flowers as high as her waist, some even higher. They give off a sharp, wild scent as she passes. In a few steps they are in a small, secluded clearing, surrounded by a wall of white and green. A gnarled tree hangs overhead, dappling the light. The air is alive with birds and the rustle of leaves.

With a deep breath, she turns to face Sully. He stands several feet away, arms crossed over his chest, looking every bit as inscrutable and forbidding as he had when they first met. Somehow she has to find her way through this stranger to the man who is her friend. The man who loves her.

"So you've come to say goodbye?" he says, before she can speak.

"Goodbye?" she echoes, uncomprehending.

"Before you pack up and move back to Boston."

She looks at him in surprise. "I'm not moving back to Boston."

"William ain't moving to Colorado Springs?" His tone is derisive.

"No," she says slowly, "he's not."

"Not much of a marriage if you don't even live in the same place."

"Marriage? Sully, I'm not marrying William."

"You're not."

"No, I'm not."

She waits for him to say something, for some change in his expression that will indicate he is at least not indifferent to the news, but he just stands there, looking at her in that unreadable way of his. "Aren't you going to say something?"

He shrugs again. "None of my business. Like you said."

"You know that's not true," she says softly.

"It's what you said in Boston."

She sighs, her hands pulling at her skirt in frustration. Why is he being so obtuse? "I know it's what I said, but I didn't mean it. I was confused. I needed time to think."

His expression is scornful. "Seems to me you shouldn't need to think about it when a man asks you to marry him."

She recalls the shock of William's proposal that day and then Sully's angry confrontation in the street, how it had shaken her, the whirl of her thoughts and feelings making her afraid. If it had been Sully who asked her to marry him, would she have needed to think?

"You're right," she says.

From the slight movement of his head, she sees she's surprised him. It gives her courage as she tries to find the words to tell him the truth he deserves.

"I spent those first weeks in Boston feeling that, aside from Rebecca, William was my only ally. He respected me as a fellow doctor; he listened to my opinions. That's not something I've experienced since my father died. That professional validation - it's something I hadn't realised how much I'd missed. And, too, he was kind and intelligent, easy to talk to. We shared similar backgrounds, similar interests and philosophies."

She looks down at where her hands are bunched in the folds of her skirt. "He was open about his... admiration of me as... as a woman."

After so many months of not knowing exactly what it was that she and Sully shared, the very frank and unreserved nature of William's regard had been like a balm. A lovely gift she treasured. How can she possibly explain?

"Being in Boston again, everything was so familiar. There was something seductive about just sinking back into my life there. My family would have been very happy with the match. And I think, in time, I could have loved him, though perhaps not the way he deserved. But then you came." She takes a few steps toward him, needing to be closer, wishing she could touch him. "It was as if you were a mirror showing me the truth. And that frightened me, Sully. I didn't want to see it. But I had no choice. When I'm with you it's as though I'm more awake: I see more, and more clearly. Even when I don't want to.

"And the truth is that I don't love William. I love you."

Her heart is pounding as she watches him and waits.

"You sure got a funny way of showin' it."

Whatever she had thought his response to her admission would be, it wasn't this. She stares at him, open-mouthed, uncomprehending as he steps even closer.

"I told you on that train that I love you and you walked away."

"That's not fair! It - it happened so fast. And the children - I couldn't just leave them. Or my family, not without saying goodbye." Surprised hurt quickly curdles into anger. "And you, you told me you weren't ready."

He gestures dismissively. "That was months ago."

"Well how was I to know you'd changed your mind?"

"I thought comin' all the way to Boston might've been a clue!"

"And, what? I was supposed to just be sitting and waiting patiently for you whenever you decided you wanted me?"

"That's not what I'm sayin'."

"Then what _are_ you saying?"

They are so close now they're almost touching.

"I'm sayin' you walked away."

Michaela closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath, letting it out slowly. Remembering Snow Bird's words about Sully's anger and fear, she feels her own anger draining away. Opening her eyes, she makes herself really look at him, taking in the taut set of his features, the way he seems poised for flight. Slowly, she reaches out and takes one of his hands in hers. His expression doesn't change, but his fingers curl slightly around her own.

"Yes," she admits. "I walked away then. I'm sorry for that. But I'm here now." She places a gentle emphasis on the last word, hoping he will understand.

Sully simply looks at her for a moment, then down at their joined hands. "You're here now," he says, meeting her eyes again. It is almost a question.

"Yes."

Without breaking her gaze, he brings their joined hands up and presses her palm against his chest. She looks at their hands together, feeling his heart beating under the soft cloth of his shirt. It is the very same gesture William had made in Boston and yet somehow so entirely different. That had been pretty gallantry. This is a promise. This is Sully's heart. She looks up into his eyes and is sure there has never been anything so blue.

"I thought I'd never see you again," he says softly. "I thought I'd lost you."

Unable to speak, she can only shake her head.

"When I saw you walkin' with Snow Bird, I thought I was imaginin' it. That I wanted to see you so bad somehow I conjured you."

He brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek, the touch so gentle it makes her throat ache. The change in his face is like a revelation.

"I sent a telegram to say we were coming home," she says, her voice sounding strange and far away to her own ears.

"I ain't been into town." He is tracing the edge of her ear with his thumb. The sensation echoes all down her spine.

"Oh," is all she can manage. The air is very still now and it seems as if the world has gone quiet for miles around.

"I love you," he says into the hush.

"I love you, too."

He touches her bottom lip gently with one fingertip, pressing down ever so slightly. Her mouth opens on a tiny gasp. He is so close now she can smell him, feel the heat coming off his skin. Somehow her other hand has moved to his waist, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. He leans in and brushes a gentle kiss at her temple, another high on her cheek, a third at the point of her jaw. Hardly knowing what she's doing, she turns her head toward him, seeking, as her eyes flutter closed.

Their mouths meet and for a moment she freezes in surprise at her own boldness. Then his lips move against hers, tender, almost unbearably sweet. It is hardly more than the kiss he'd given her on her birthday, yet she is already dizzy and breathless. Sully slides his fingers into her hair and moves his other hand to her waist so that she's cradled in his arms. She has never felt such yearning to be held even closer, tighter. Her arms creep up to grasp his shoulders as he kisses her again. This time his mouth is slightly open and the feel of the soft, inner flesh of his lips makes something tighten in her belly. He kisses her again and again, until she can't think, until her mouth follows his blindly even as he pulls away. They are both breathing quickly as though they've been running. She can't feel her toes.

"Tell me again," he says.

"I love you, Sully."

He smiles wide, looking almost boyish, and she can't help but smile back at the joy on his face, humbled that she has such power over him. He gathers her close and holds her and it is as if she has finally, finally come home.

"I missed you," she whispers into his chest, against his heart.

His voice is the most beautiful sound she knows. "I missed you, too."

* * *

Many thanks to wendelah, who provided encouragement, humour, and commas despite dastardly technical difficulties. The epigraph is from Mark Doty's poem, Atlantis. Oh and I cribbed a bit of dialogue from 'Ready or Not'.


End file.
